


cycles

by orphan_account



Series: where we aren't [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Lots of regrets, Parallel Lives, THERE ARE NO HAPPY ENDINGS HERE, The constant struggle between settling and striving, history repeats itself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 07:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The thing about history is that it's bound to repeat itself. The thing about families is that each is unhappy in its own way. The thing about parallel lines is that they have so much in common yet never meet.In which they surrender and fall right back on the track the universe decided for them.Or: Jughead, Betty, and a lifetime of mistakes. AU continuation of 2x08.





	cycles

**Author's Note:**

> This story disregards all canonical events occurring post-2x08, with the exception of The Penny Incident, which is alluded to in the first Jughead POV scene.

_“There are only patterns, patterns on top of patterns, patterns that affect other patterns. Patterns hidden by patterns. Patterns within patterns._

_If you watch close, history does nothing but repeat itself.”_

\-  Chuck Palahniuk, Survivor

 

 

 

She goes home, with the memory of green neon signs, the soft red glow in the darkness, and the feeling of bright, hot stage light burning into her face, her neck, her shoulders, still so vivid in her mind that when she finally throws the door open, she’s momentarily thrown off by how pink and childish looking and utterly _innocent_ her room looks.

Standing there, technically in her own world, the world that looks exactly the way she left it, Betty feels like an intruder, an outsider who doesn’t belong. Like a little girl slipping her feet into oversized high heels and smearing makeup all over her face in an attempt to appear like a grown woman, but ends up looking like a mockery, a caricature instead.

Underneath her clothes, the black lace rubs against her skin, growing ever tighter by the second, threatening to leave permanent marks on her skin. She feels like she can’t breathe.

Making a mad dash for the bathroom, she quite literally rips the offending item of clothing off her, steps into the shower and just stands there, letting the scalding hot water rain down on her, all the while resisting the urge to ball her hands into fists.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Afterwards, when she’s already changed into a familiar, comfortable pink sweater, she sits there, looking at the crumpled heap of lace on the floor.

_A stupid game of dress up, that’s all it was. God, I was so naïve, to think I could simply fit into his world by playing dress up for a couple of hours._

Then, another train of thought, bitter and angry this time. _After everything…_ _this is what I get in return. Rejection and humiliation. I risked everything. I put myself out there. I defied my mother, for goodness’ sake._

And that’s when it hits her.

All her life, Alice has tried to stifle her freedom, control her every movement, mold her into the model image of upper class perfection. All her life, she’s rebelled, she’s fought her mother tooth and nail, to regain her agency, to live her life on her own terms, to be her own person.

All for naught. Her mother was right all along.

Wordlessly, she gets up, gathers the lingerie, dumps it into the burn barrel in the backyard, then sets it ablaze.

 _Maybe_ , she thinks as she watches the flames devour the fabric, tiny sparks bouncing amid the smoke, _maybe_ _this won’t be so bad. After all, Mom knows best, and she only wants the best for me._

The next morning, when Alice gives Betty one of her Alice Cooper patented lectures, she only listens, hangs her head apologetically and says, “Yes, Mom.” Later, she accepts the tiny orange bottle without resistance.

If it throws Alice off, she says nothing.

 

 

 

Jughead desperately rubs his hands together until his skin is red and sore, as the water in the sink turns a sick orange-ish, pink-ish color. Biting his lip, he tries his best to restrain himself from clawing into his own skin until it draws blood.

Slowly, he looks up, and is surprised to see his own reflection in the mirror. Contrary to his wild, dramatic imaginations, there isn’t a twisted, grotesque monster staring back at him, he still looks exactly the same, it’s still him.

Except it’s not anymore, is it?

He stares at the reflection, holding his breath. Underneath the flickering lights of the old dingy bathroom and marred by dust and spots of dried water droplets, there is something almost dark, almost sinister about it.

He thinks back to the red neon of Pop’s, the smell of coffee, the sound of his laptop keyboards tapping to a steady rhythm. He thinks about the boy who likes to challenge gravity by leaning as far back in his chair as possible as he watches a blonde girl studiously hunched over a textbook, tapping a highlighter absentmindedly on the page, in a room with walls painted blue and gold. All of that seems so far away now, like it happened several lifetimes ago, to a boy who no longer exists.

His jacket weighs heavily down on his shoulders as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

If he digs deep enough into the darkest corners of his mind, he’ll find the damning truth he’s been trying to hide: He liked it. In a twisted way, it made him feel powerful. Like for once, he’s taking charge and being the one calling the shots instead of the passive observer just letting things happen to him.

Tonight, he’s discovered a side of himself he never knew existed, and it’s terrifying but oh so exhilarating, too.

All his life, he’s tried his damnedest to steer himself away from the natural path of his life, his father’s legacy, did his best to not let his circumstances dictate the rest of his life, to make a life for himself in the world, away from the ugliness of it all.

All for naught. In the end, no one can escape who they truly are.

_I was such a fool, to think I could challenge the preconceived roles the universe has given me. I could have never won. No matter how much I liked to convince myself otherwise, this could only have ended one way._

“Jones?” a voice startles him, and he whips his head around at the speed of someone who’s been caught red-handed. In the doorway, he can barely make out Toni’s silhouette. “You coming or not? The boys are getting a little antsy.”

“Yeah, in a sec,” he replies curtly, and she disappears off the hallway with a nod.

 _Maybe,_ he thinks as he straightens himself out and adopts what he hopes to be an authoritative posture, _maybe this won’t be so bad._ _After all,_ _good things just aren’t for you, you’ll just end up wrecking them. This is your place, this is what you do best._

She’s staring at the fireplace, trying to decide if she should speak up. Archie sits next to her on the other side of the couch, one arm propping up his head, his expression morose. A miserable aura emanates from him as he heaves a small sigh.

It’s always been their tradition that they spend every Christmas together, but it’s clear that neither of them is feeling particularly festive at the moment. Betty can hardly blame him, considering what went down between him and Veronica just a few days prior.

She’s just decided not to say anything and let the rest of the evening pass by in silence when he speaks up, startling her.

“Hey, uh, I almost forgot,” he says before pushing himself up and rummaging in the backpack he’s left sitting at his foot, and produces a small wrapped box. “I got this for you.”

She stares at the gift, clumsily wrapped in red and green and haphazardly taped together in a way that shows the wrapper gave up halfway through, and feels her heart swell with a strange sort of affection. “Thank you, Arch. But I don’t have anything for you. I’m sorry, these past couple days have been so…”

He waves a hand dismissively and flashes her one of his boyish smiles, the ones that used to make her heart flutter and her stomach churn, once upon a time. “Don’t worry about it. You can make it up to me later. Just open it.”

Impulsively, in a move that surprises even herself, she leans over and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. When she draws back, he looks stunned, and she momentarily panics.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t…” she stammers an apology, but he slowly breaks into a smile, and soon she finds herself smiling too, all the awkwardness forgotten.

It’s comforting, she thinks, that in the end, they still have each other. Archie has always been there, a constant presence, a steady force, her port in the storm. And even now, when everything has gone to hell, she still has him, her anchor through it all. No matter how wild or crazy or changeable life is, Archie is the one thing that never changes.

Wistfully, she longs for simpler days, before there were bodies in rivers or masked killers or violent criminal gangs. When there was just the two of them. Just Betty and Archie against the world.

She wonders if they can have that again.

 

 

 

Jughead jumps when a hardcover lands heavily on top of his textbook with a thud. He looks up to see Toni standing in front of him with an expression he can only describe as equal smug and playful, hands on her hips, looking pleased with herself.

“Thought that might break your trance,” she says, taking a seat across the desk from him. He removes his headphones, letting them rest on his shoulders, and starts flipping through the book.

“ _The Journalist and the Murderer_ ,” he reads out the title. “You know me so well.”

She does her best impression of a dramatic sigh. “It’s a curse.”

He can’t help but crack a smile at that, and almost regrets it at the vindictive look on her face.

“Look at that, a smile,” she says in a tone he can only imagine as one someone would use to describe the eighth wonder of the world, if one existed. “Watch out, Jones. You have a reputation as the brooding, aloof nerd to uphold. Wouldn’t want to be caught dead wearing anything but a frown on your face, now would you?”

He shoots her a withering look, and she holds up her hands in a ‘I’m just saying!’ gesture, looking entirely too innocent for his liking.

Deep down though, he appreciates the temporary distraction. Much as he hates to admit it, she’s right: he _has_ been brooding, more so than usual. Not intentionally, of course. It’s just become the default expression his facial muscles find themselves in whenever he gets a moment to himself.

He allows himself to entertain the possibility that Toni is aware of his troubles, and this – distracting him with a book she knows he enjoys while passing off the whole thing as a lighthearted joke –  is her own unique, rather roundabout way of cheering him up, of showing him that she cares, of being there for him. After all, if there’s one thing that Jughead knows about Toni, is that like him, she isn’t exactly good at articulating her own emotions.

They do have a lot in common, now that he thinks about it. He wonders if she, like him, once struggled with the confines of the South side, the preconceived notions others make about her with just one sideways glance and a snide laugh. He wonders if that’s the real reason why she’s been so willing to lend him her support these past few weeks. Perhaps she sees a part of herself in him, the part that is wide-eyed and idealistic, the part that wrestled fruitlessly to escape the life that’s been mapped out for her.

He wonders if underneath the surface, they’re really just two sides of the same coin.

 

 

 

Archie offers to walk her home, and up until that moment, Betty never realized how long it’s been since they last walked home together. She misses that familiar, comforting feeling of humid summer afternoons racing down the block, or chilly winter evenings walking huddled close for warmth, Archie occasionally stopping to admire the twinkling lights on the houses they passed by.

(Mentally, she tries to erase the image of a dark-haired boy watching the two of them goof around with an exasperated but fond expression on his face, and ignores the sheer _wrongness_ of the blank space it leaves her with. Archie and Betty and [redacted]. It’s broken and incomplete, but it hurts less this way, so she’ll have to accept it.)

They’re so close now that their arms brush against each other as they walk. Slowly, Betty brings her left hand up from her coat pocket and grips onto Archie’s arm. He stiffens momentarily, then relaxes. They walk the rest of the way in companionable silence.

As they reach the front door of the Cooper residence, Archie stops her, and without any warning, meets her lips with his. She returns the kiss, throwing her arms around his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his varsity jacket. For a moment, her fingers find the smooth surface of leather, and she feels nauseous, but the illusion is thankfully fleeting.

 

 

 

Once again, Toni’s uncle drinks himself into a stupor, and once again she seeks refuge at Jughead’s trailer. Once again, he gives her his clothes to sleep in, and once again, he camps out on the couch in the living room with only his laptop to keep him company.

In the middle of the night however, as he’s editing and paraphrasing the same paragraph for the thirteenth time while doing his best to keep his growing frustration in check, he gets that odd sensation of being watched intently, and looks up to see her leaning against the doorway.

“It’s cold tonight,” she comments, and he suspects it’s not just innocuous weather small talk, but the room is so dark that he can’t quite make out the look on her face.

She pushes herself off the doorway, makes her way toward him and plops herself down next to him on the couch. The light from his laptop screen tells him she’s staring at him with an expression that’s equal wanting and challenging.

He remembers blonde hair and strawberry-scented skin, but the image is overridden by red stage lights, blood-stained hands, so he screws his eyes shut and forces himself to forget.

_Know your place. Know your place._

“Oh, I think I know how to remedy that,” he tells her with a smirk, but his voice comes out distant, like it’s not his own, like it’s someone else speaking through him.

She smiles, reaches over to shut his laptop, then takes its place on his lap. Their lips meet, and he is surprised to find himself numb. He gets up, taking her with him, and makes his way toward his bedroom.

 

 

 

It’s the spring before their high school graduation when Betty sees him again. He’s perched on his motorcycle in the parking lot in front of Pop’s – seemingly the town’s only neutral ground these days – arms crossed over his chest, his expression cold and stoic as he listens to a couple of tattooed, grizzled men in leather jackets talk in hushed tones, his head bowed slightly. She does not recognize him anymore, and even though a part of her expected it, another part of her – tiny, but it’s there – feels angry, disappointed, and mournful all at once.

A moment later, a girl with pink cascading locks and a beanie matching Jughead’s exits Pop’s and makes her way toward the men. She watches as the leather-clad couple share a kiss before Toni hops on her own motorcycle. Turning to the men, Jughead jerks his head to the side in a signal to follow him before they all speed off.

Betty only realizes she’s still staring at them long after they’ve gone when Pop himself pokes his head out the front door to check on her and shakes her out of her reverie.

 

 

 

Jughead is part thankful and part amazed that even after all this time, Pop still welcomes him into his diner with open arms instead of making the arguably more sensible choice of calling the cops on him the moment he steps onto his property. Well, when he really thinks about it, he isn’t entirely sure if it’s the lingering affections the old man still has for the boy he used to be or an unwillingness to cross a gang leader and risk having the entirety of the South side population going after him with pitchforks raised that makes Pop tolerate his presence in the diner for longer than five minutes, but he intends to make the best out of it.

Which is why from time to time, when he finds the time, Jughead trades his leather jacket for a well-worn, comfortable Sherpa, orders a coffee (black, no sugar), picks the booth furthest away from the door, and starts people watching.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to come back and perform that seemingly pointless ritual over and over. Maybe a part of him still can’t completely let go of his old life and he still feels compelled to grab hold onto a part of it, no matter how small or insignificant. It may even be something as trivial and mundane as old habits dying hard. Either way, the afternoons he spends people watching are the only times when he can temporarily escape and just be no one for a few hours. The moment he pushes the door open and hears the little jingling sound of the bell above, it’s like he’s entered a liminal space that exists on a separate mortal plane, away from the insanity that is Riverdale, a town divided in half. Sometimes, he even feels like the boy with a big imagination and big dreams who used to pull all-nighters typing away in a booth all over again.

He knows it’s all a farce, though. An illusion he constructed to comfort himself. That boy is gone, and he can never get him back.

It’s also during one of his people watching rituals that he catches Archie and Betty entering the diner one day. He watches as they settle into a booth, laughing and smiling. Archie whispers something in Betty’s ear, and she giggles and playfully shoves him. They spend the next hour with their heads huddled close, deep in conversation, smiling from time to time, before departing. Jughead, being on the far end of the diner, goes completely unnoticed.

He thinks she still looks the same as she did the last time he saw her. Or maybe she looks even more beautiful now. But one thing is certain: she looks happier.

And for him, that’s all that matters.

 

 

 

After college, Betty returns home one journalism degree and one diamond ring richer. Soon after their return, she learns from Archie that Jughead has had his first run in with the police when her fiancé takes a trip to the Sheriff’s station to bail him out.

Archie… Archie never changes. Still steady, still constant, still loyal to a fault. Jughead, on the other hand, seems to become more and more of a stranger as time goes by. Betty doesn’t see him anymore, but from the stories she’s told, the whispers she overhears, the gossip she catches wind of, if his name were not mentioned, she’d never believe they were about him.

She remembers the shy, withdrawn teenage boy who didn’t seem to take a liking to anyone but her and Archie. She remembers the boy who risked her parents’ wrath and climbed up her window to kiss her for the very first time. The quiet boy who gently wrapped her hands in his and kissed her fingertips as if he wanted to erase all her hurt and suffering with each touch of his lips.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever stop being surprised at how much things have changed. Where did it all go so wrong?

 

 

 

From what he hears, his two former best friends have returned to Riverdale to be closer to an ailing Fred. He can’t imagine either of them must be too happy about this turn of events. Fred’s deteriorating health means Betty will have to work at the Register instead of some renowned newspaper publisher in New York that she was always so keen on applying to as soon as she got the chance. As for Archie, that means having to take on a family business he’s spent so long trying to run away from.

Jughead chuckles to himself, but it’s bitter. After all, no one ever escapes the path mapped out for them.

 

 

 

Betty has a daughter, a beautiful girl with strawberry blonde hair and brown eyes she names Liv, and for a short while, she’s never felt happier.

Slowly but surely though, like water eroding stone, she can see the cracks forming in her life.

Betty finds the confines of Riverdale stifling, the gossip and the prying invasive, and her marriage increasingly tedious. She thinks Archie must feel the same way too, if the weary sigh he heaves whenever he comes home is any indication. She knows, she knows his true passion isn’t, has never been bricks and stones and houses, but guitar and treble clefs and spotlights. One day, she stumbles upon his old music sheets, crumpled and tucked away in a corner of the garage. In a corner of one page, she finds a doodle, though mostly faded, that she recognizes as a dark-haired woman.

Betty hasn’t thought about Veronica in years. Veronica and all Veronica-associated information have long been carefully pushed to the very back of her mind, next to Jughead and all Jughead-associated information. She can’t bear to think about Veronica, but when she does, she wonders if she was the one who so selfishly and heartlessly stole her own best friend’s happiness because she craved stability and the comfort of the familiar.

 _Stability_ , she reminds herself. _It may not be the life you’ve always envisioned, but it’s stable_ _and it’s safe and you won’t get hurt._ _An adult’s life, not some child’s daydream._

 

 

 

He and Toni are careful, but not careful enough. He still remembers that night so vividly, when he comes home to her sitting on the bathroom floor, eyes wide and panicked, revealing their upcoming parenthood to him, desperately looking to him for reassurance. He remembers putting on a brave face for the both of them and hoping against all hope that she won’t see right through him and realize that he’s just as caught off-guard as she is. To this day he still doesn’t know how successful or convincing he was.

They don’t marry. They rationalize it as: they already live together, marriage is just a formality in the form of a piece of paper, and they certainly can’t afford the luxury of a ceremony. So life goes on, in a way still the same but also not at the same time.

In hindsight, the unplanned pregnancy was the beginning of the end for them. He first started noticing it a few months in, when she seemed more weary and less enthusiastic than before. At first, he chalked it up to typical pregnancy-induced exhaustion, but even after their son was born, the signs didn’t abate but increased in their intensity. Toni began skipping Serpent meetings (prompting Sweet Pea to seize the opportunity to make a distasteful joke about the perks of sleeping with the right people before Jughead silences him with a pointed look), and didn’t partake in Serpent-related activities unless he specifically asked her to.

Where he used to have a mirror of himself, a like-minded partner in crime with a penchant for the darker things in life, he now has a reluctant participant, ready to turn tail and run at the earliest opportunity. Jughead isn’t sure what perturbs him more, that he’s losing who he believed to be his natural counterpart, or that her desire to turn her life around threatens to awaken the very same desire lying dormant inside him.

One day, he comes home, and is momentarily startled to see blonde hair, before his vision adjusts and he realizes that the color is a bit darker and the tresses a little longer. _It's not her. Of course it isn't._ But that one split second, that fleeting instant when his breath hitches in his throat and his stomach does a somersault is enough damning evidence for his feelings, and he inwardly curses himself for his lingering sentimentality.

 

 

 

Betty passes by her daughter’s bedroom one day on the way to the laundry room, and she can swear she hears muffled voices coming from inside the room.

After taking a moment to make sure she’s not hallucinating, Betty makes her way over. Another moment of deliberation, and her good manners win out: she knocks on the door a couple times before pushing it open.

“Liv?” she calls out. “I heard voices. Who were you talking to, sweetie?”

Liv has just managed to pull the curtains closed when she enters. She gives Betty an innocent look. “I was just talking to myself, Mom. It helps me organize my thoughts.”

It’s a lie and Betty knows it, but she says nothing. Instead, she gently admonishes Liv for keeping her curtains closed in broad daylight, muttering something about it being bad for her vision and uses it as an excuse to pull the curtains aside.

She doesn’t see anything suspicious, but something tells her this is not the end of it.

 

 

 

Toni gives him an ultimatum, one he predictably fails to abide by. This also predictably turns out to be the last straw that drives her away.

“I want to start over,” she tells him. “I can’t do that as long as I’m anywhere near you or the Serpents.”

He wants to retort that she was the one who tried to drag him into the Serpents on Tall Boy’s orders in the first place, but he knows he can’t shrug off all responsibility and pile them on her, and it’ll just lead to a bigger fight, more resentment, and a sour mood for the rest of the week while solving absolutely nothing, so he says nothing as he watches her pack up the few of her possessions.

Much to their surprise, their son stays, no matter how much Toni begs, threatens, reasons, and even cries (Toni never cries.). Jughead likes to believe he’s staying out of some misguided loyalty toward his father, or because he believes in his father’s redemption, but something tells him there’s another reason, something else that Pen isn’t telling him.

 

 

 

One afternoon, Betty settles into a booth at Pop’s and orders an orange freeze as she waits for Liv. Ten, then twenty minutes pass by, and she finds herself staring absentmindedly out the window when something catches her eye.

In an obscured corner of the parking lot, there’s Liv, who looks to be exchanging a quick, hushed conversation with a leather-clad boy on a motorcycle.

In that moment, her whole universe is thrown off balance.

In that moment, Betty is certain of three things. One, she has never seen that boy in her life. Two, the motorcycle, that she has. Three, she knows exactly who that boy is.

She’s slightly surprised to find she’s still watching them, unable to tear her gaze away. Liv has her back turned toward Betty, but even from this vantage point, she can still see that the younger girl is distressed. The boy reaches out to touch her cheek, and Liv leans into his touch like it’s the most natural thing to do, and her shoulders visibly relax. They exchange a few more quick words before he speeds off and Liv starts toward the diner.

Betty turns her gaze toward the orange freeze on the table, taking deep breaths to keep herself from shaking. When Liv reaches the booth with apologies for being late, she flashes her daughter a smile and pretends everything is fine, like her world hasn’t just been turned on its head.

Everything is fine.

 

 

 

“You said this would be the last time.”

Pen is standing in front of Jughead (who’s half lounging on the couch and rubbing his eyes tiredly), his gaze accusatory, his jaw set, fists clenched at his sides.

“Son, it’s not that simple,” Jughead begins, and is promptly cut off.

“No, you don’t get to pull that card,” the younger boy spits out, voice raised now. “Everything in your life is only as simple or as complicated as you make them. Call it what it is, Dad: you’re not trying.”

Well, the kid’s got spunk and isn’t afraid to serve some cold hard truth, Jughead will give him that.

With a sigh, Pen slowly lowers himself onto a small wooden chair and runs a hand through his hair.

“I don’t even know why I still believe you can change,” he says finally, his tone resigned. “If Mom leaving wasn’t enough of a wake-up call for you, I honestly don’t know what will be.”

Jughead looks at his son, really _looks_ at him, and sees the look on his face which is equal parts disappointed, resentful but also hopeful. Faced with a multitude of contradictory emotions on his son’s face, an uncomfortable twinge of recognition tingles in his chest. He’s seen that look before, a long time ago, in the mirror.

For the first time, he feels truly, genuinely ashamed of himself. He’s about to speak when Pen suddenly pulls himself up again and throws his hands up in an exasperated gesture.

“Fine, tell me how many more ‘last times’ there are gonna be.”

Jughead is so thrown off that the only thing he manages to squeak out is a confused, “huh?”

Pen continues on mercilessly. “Come on. Just give me an estimate. How many more?”

He searches for the words to say, right words, comforting words, anything, but nothing comes. His mind blanks.

Pen nods, as if he understands a silent message that even Jughead doesn’t know he’s communicating. Then he starts toward the door. “Think about it, Dad.”

“Pen, wait –“ Jughead begins, but the door slams before he can finish.

He sits there in silence for a few minutes before he pulls himself together, goes outside, starts the engine of F.P. II’s old truck, and drives to Pop’s.

 

 

 

The first thing, or rather person, that Betty sees when she enters Pop’s is a familiar man meticulously running a cloth along the length of the counter with the attention one usually reserves for far more intricate tasks than just wiping down a flat surface.

She freezes in place for a split second, and manages to recover just enough to turn around before Jughead looks up and notices her.

“Betty,” he calls out. He sounds surprised, like the one place the entire town, North and South, frequents at least once per week is the last place he expected to see her.

Slowly, carefully, she turns to face him.

“Jughead.”

 

 

 

They sit across each other in a booth, but neither says anything. Jughead stares at Betty while Betty glares at the coffee cup in front of her. Five minutes pass, then ten.

“So,” Jughead breaks the silence, attempting to kick start the conversation with some lighthearted small talk. “You seem to be doing well for yourself, Cooper.”

“Andrews,” she corrects him, gaze still focused firmly on the coffee.

A twinge of sadness stings in his chest, but he angrily and determinedly shoves it down. Outwardly, he smiles. “Right, right. My bad.” Then, another attempt at levity, “I still like Cooper, though. It suits you better. Honestly, never pegged you for the ‘taking husband’s name’ type. Thought you’d at least hyphenate, for equality’s sake.”

To her credit, she refuses to rise to the bait, but she’s looking at him now. Jughead counts it as a win.

“Alright, Betty, as fun as this is, I don’t think you yanked me out of my work shift just to glare at me, so really, what’s going on? We haven’t seen each other in years, I can’t imagine there’s anything-“

“My daughter,” she interrupts him, giving him a pointed look. “and your son.”

“Really?” he quips. “Not even a, ‘how have you been, Jughead?’”.

She responds by raising an eyebrow at him. He shoots right back with his own raised eyebrow without missing a beat.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, Betts.”

She heaves an annoyed sigh. “Don’t play dumb, Jughead.”

Jughead lets out a small laugh, looking entirely too pleased with himself for managing to get under her skin, and that annoys her even more, but the part she’s tried to bury at the far back of her mind finds it strangely endearing. She hates it, hates him that after all these years, he still has so much power over her, over the way she feels, but most of all, she hates herself for letting him.

“I’m not in the business of helicopter parenting, Betty,” he tells her matter-of-factly, hoping she won’t retort with a snarky _of course not, you’re just not in the business of parenting, period._ A part of him thinks she’s not that kind of person, but it’s been so long that he isn’t sure if he still knows her anymore, or if he ever knew her all that well to begin with.

Luckily for him, Betty seems to have bigger fish to fry. “I won’t have our kids make the same mistakes we did,” she says simply, voice resolute.

The corners of his lips quirk into a smile, but there’s something almost sad about it, and Betty half regrets her choice of words.

“They weren’t all mistakes,” he finally says after a moment of silence, and curses himself when it comes out softer, quieter than he intended. “Not to me.”

Betty doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she bites her lip and shakes her head.

“Look at me, going all control freak on my daughter’s life,” she says with a hint of realization, like it’s the first time she truly registers her own behavior. “I’m slowly becoming my mother.”

If she’s looking for words of reassurance, he can’t give them to her. The silence of all that is unspoken weighs heavily on their shoulders, hangs thick in the air around them, pounds loudly with every tick of the clock on the wall.

There’s so much they want to say, but neither says anything.

_(I wish I’d done things differently. I wish I’d fought harder. I wish I hadn’t resigned myself to my fate and let things unfold the way they did.)_

_(I really thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I’d be happier this way. I thought it’d be easier, simpler, safer.)_

“It’s too late now, isn’t it,” she muses, not realizing she’s done it out loud.

“For us, it is,” he replies. It takes her a moment, but she catches the meaning.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “You’re right.”

 

 

 

She throws one last look at him as she pays the bill at the counter, but he doesn’t look at her.

 

 

 

He only looks up long after he hears the sound of the shopkeeper’s bell jingling, signaling her departure.

 

 

 

They miss each other, as they’ve done their whole lives. Always there, always passing by, but never meeting.

 

 

 

~~_It wasn’t a mistake._ ~~

~~_Not with you._ ~~

_fin._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was an extremely difficult piece to write, I can only imagine it's also very hard to read. Still, I do hope dearly that someone out there finds my attempt at an exploration of a darker, bleaker future for Betty and Jughead interesting in some way. I had lots of fun writing older!Betty and older!Jughead in a way that I hope shows they've changed a lot but still retained a tiny fraction of their younger selves. I have a lot of feelings about this particular scenario, so I welcome any discussions/thoughts in the comments!


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